Below is the transcript of Tim's eulogy I delivered at his memorial service:


How can I summarize Tim's life, and all he meant to me, in a single short speech?  I simply can't.  Instead, what I hope is to give you a glimpse into his life:  Who was he as a person?   What did I love about him?  What would he want his legacy to be?

I'll start with a list of the top ten things I think best capture Tim’s essence:

10.  Tim and the News

Tim's best friend since childhood, Joe Quackenbush, told me he admired how easily Tim could carry on a conversation with total strangers.  That was true; if you left Tim alone anywhere in public, you'd undoubtedly return to see him surrounded by people, almost as if he were holding court.  This wasn't a coincidence.  Tim had the personality and gift of good conversation. He knew how to draw people in. 

Joey told me Tim could do this because he knew a little something about everything.  Tim spent hours upon hours reading.....with an insatiable inquisitiveness about the world around him.  He especially enjoyed international news and politics, all with a global perspective.  He told me the BBC was his favorite source because he found them the most impartial. 

On his final days, when he was in ICU without the physical strength to hold his own phone, he asked me to read out loud to him the latest news on what was happening in Syria.  He was deeply concerned about the  chemical attacks   

Tim was a political progressive and a global citizen concerned about conflict.   His first Presidential election was in 2008.  Wanting to fully support his first voting experience, I made a pot of piping hot coffee - enough to fill three thermoses to take with us as we stood in line in the freezing cold pre-dawn darkness , to be the first to cast our votes at the Clifton Park town hall.   

9.  Tim and Games

It makes me happy to think that Tim inherited his love of games from me.  As a millennial boy, his obvious preference was for video games, but his mom-inspired interests included word puzzles, Soduku, and board games.

His competitiveness in board games began as far back as I can remember.   Up until the time he passed away, one of our favorite family activities was Family Game Night.   When he was younger, game night included simple things, like pizza and Scattegories.   But as a young adult, the tradition morphed into a party that included Kim and his friends.   It usually went something like this:   I would whip up a batch of cocktails, choose a music playlist on Spotify, and we would play multiple games....until it all just got too silly.   Newer games like Cards Against Humanity and Apples to Apples accelerated the Time To Silliness. (Joey, GDD?)

While all the new party games were fun, Tim's all-time favorite game remained Monopoly.  The fact that it's the longest board game in history wasn't a detriment to him; he considered that a feature.  One of my last Monopoly memories with him was just a few weeks before he died.  He was so excited to bring home a new version of Monopoly,  with the latest feature: an electronic bank.   This was so exciting to Tim, because, according to him, Kim slowed down our gameplay because she couldn't count her money fast enough.   

That night, Bill and I, along with Tim and Kim, played the electronic bank version of Monopoly at our kitchen table.  Everything seemed so normal!  Kim even kept track of her money correctly!  I remember that night as one of the last times I was truly happy.  It was one of the last times I remember living without the overwhelming loss that creeps into my thoughts Every. Single. Day.  (and Every. Single. Night.)   

Ok, ok....let me explain something.....if I am going to attempt to define ourMonopoly game, I should at least explain to you how Tim played Monopoly, which was not normal at all.    We did not play the game like any other family.  We had our own rules, carefully crafted over decades that began with my own father....which is why it's called Minnerly Monopoly.    Trust me, Parker Brothers would never endorse this bastardized version, which included unsanctioned wheeling and dealing.  For example, Tim would instigate the most outrageous side deals and alliances - many of which had nothing to do with the game.  Imagine side deals like: "Mom, I'll give you Park Place if you do my laundry for a week,"  or "Dad, if you let me land on your hotel spot for free, I'll pick up Mom and throw her in the pool!"  We always had a lot of fun playing.

8.  Generosity

If you knew my Dad, I suspect you remember him for two things: humor and generosity.  I was at my most proud of Tim when I saw him doing the same types of things.

Whether buying a gift for a friend, sneaking away to pay the dinner check before anyone else could, or donating to someone in need, Tim liked to treat others.  A meaningful example is how he spent his first SSI disability check.  After going through more than 600 hours of intensive chemotherapy, Tim was devastated that he was too sick to work.  He hated the loss of financial independence.  When he received his first check, he sent expensive flowers and chocolates to Kim at work and a bottle of Jo Malone Wood Sage and Sea Salt to me.  

For the last few years of his life, Tim and I lived literally 5-10 feet apart, together 24/7, in either his hospital room or at the Hope Lodge.  It was rare that one of us could do something without the other knowing about it.  When I saw him wanting to gift something to someone, my first reaction was always to protect him and his money.  "Oh, Tim.  You don't need to do that.  Save your money."  But when I saw how happy it made him, I changed my opinion.  Witnessing Tim's generosity made me feel connected to my Dad.  And made me very proud of both of them.

7.  Humor

If Tim inherited generosity from my Dad, I'd like to think he inherited his sense of humor from me.  (OK, Bill, stop shaking your head!)  Tim was very funny.  Witty.  Sarcastic.  Current.  On point.  Not everyone would understand his humor.  He was sometimes darkly funny, sometimes geeky; always quirky.  When Tim first started what would become years of an inpatient hospital stay, he had a roommate that just had a colostomy.  After this roommate was wheeled back in from surgery, it took me a few minutes to understand why Tim kept texting me punctuation... ";;;;;;" (Think about it: semi-colon....argh..sigh...but that was Tim).

Tim had nicknames for everyone.  Kim, whose last name is Holtermann, was forever nicknamed Holterwoman.....(despite how many times she protested and asked for a more cute or romantic nickname.)  Our Goldens, Lucy and Milo, were Thing 1 and Thing 2......except when Lucy was bad, then she became "Lucifer".  And speaking of nicknames, Tim rarely, if ever, called me "Mom".  Instead, although he failed high school Spanish, he always called me "Madre". I loved it because it was uniquely him.

6.  Food

Tim loved food. He loved to eat it, and he loved to cook it.  Better yet, he loved to go to restaurants.  He started each day with the same coffee order-- a Starbucks venti iced vanilla latte with whole milk.  The season didn't matter: whether an 80 degree summer day or a 15 degree dark winter morning, he drank it cold.

When Tim and I lived in NYC, he spent hours reading Yelp reviews, deciding where we would try next.  Last week I fell apart crying when a list of restaurants he wanted to try fell out of his notebook.  The title was "Places to try before we leave NYC".  

His favorite foods were prime NY strip steak (with extra points for Bearnaise sauce), Buffalo chicken wings, and anything with goat cheese.  Tim loved Indian food, especially chicken vindaloo, but chemo gave him lots of mouth sores, so he had to tone down the spice level.  We became regulars at Chota Nawab, a little place in the part of NYC that used to be called Murray Hill, but now goes by the name Curry Hill.   He loved a dish they call Murgh 65, and Tim always asked what happened to Murgh 64 (groan, yes sense of humor definitely from his maternal side).

And my gosh, how he loved crepes.  Sweet crepes; savory crepes; it didn't really matter.  He just loved that crepe batter cooked in a skillet and folded on the plate in front of him.  A few months ago, Tim found this little hole-in-the-wall restaurant down on W21st.   One morning last month he asked me to play hooky from a work conference call at 10am and join him for a crepe and iced vanilla latte.  How could I say no? 

Bill and I are foodies and raised Tim the same way.  In his short life, he traveled around the world, eating at some of the best restaurants, anywhere.  Oddly, though (and much to my protest), he held a guilty pleasure for Cheeseburger Hamburger Helper.  He talked about it so much, that he used to call it "The Helper" for short.  Now, I'm a Farmer's-Market-Local-Make-From-Scratch kind of girl.  I had a huge problem embracing "The Helper".  While living with Tim in NYC, I was on a quest to update "The Helper" - making many attempts at an improved organic, made from scratch, version.  I tried so hard to win him over with my versions, but sadly Tim rejected each one.  He told me all of my versions were missing two key ingredients:  The Processing and The Toxins.
 
5.  26th Birthday

We celebrated Tim's 26th birthday on a beautiful sunny Sunday in June.  It was one of those summer days in Manhattan when there isn't a cloud in the sky.  Tim and I woke up early, waiting for Kim to arrive on the train she took to NYC from our hometown up in Albany. 

Once she arrived, the three of us took a taxi to the Lower East Side to enjoy the famous NYC brunch at The Stanton Social.  I had a Bloody Mary, and Tim, a Tequila Sunrise (which is coincidentally the only way I could ever get that boy to drink orange juice:  mixed with alcohol). We had a fantastic time.  We also had no idea on that day that Tim would be dead within 5 weeks. 

For his birthday, Tim told me he wanted a suit.  After more than a year in the hospital, he was starting to feel better and contemplating his life after the bone marrow transplant.  I asked him why he wanted a suit, and he told me he wanted it to wear because he was planning to bring Kim someplace very special, and that he also thought it would be good to have for job interviews when he was ready to go back to work.  Knowing how sick he was, this whole suit conversation just literally broke my heart.  I think the suit represented normal life to him.  He just wanted a normal life.  And I just wanted the same for him, but to me, the road to normal looked so much longer than it did to him and that broke my heart 

4.  His Diagnosis

Tim was 23-years old when he was diagnosed with cancer.  Because his certain type of Lymphoma was so rare, it took several months for him to get an accurate diagnosis.  We went to almost every specialty in Albany for answers as to why he was so sick: complete physical exhaustion, unrelenting high fever for weeks, drenching night sweats.  I know enough to have suspected lymphoma, but the local oncologist gave him a CT scan to look for it, and said it was negative.  

As weeks turned to months with no change in his symptoms, and still no answers, we traveled to expand our search to the best specialists in New York City and Boston.  

The oncologists at Dana Farber Cancer Center in Boston were the first to suggest (but not yet prove), the blood cancer officially called "Subcutaneous Panniculitis Like T Cell Lymphoma with Hemophagocytic Lymphohistiocytosis".  I used my phone to Google it while we were still in the hospital parking garage.  I noted how rare it was, which was somehow comforting to me.   I found comfort in the odds, rationalizing that surely my son couldn't have something so rare.

Still in the parking garage, I decided to Google it again, this time adding the words  "survival rates."  I froze at what I saw:  "Less than 35%".   I quickly clicked off that page, backed up our little Prius out of the garage, and started to drive home.  I  didn't mention anything to him.    

The drive home to Albany was 3 hours, , so we stopped at a rest area on the Mass Pike for dinner.  I remember every detail about our dinner at the little table in D'Angelos on the I-90 rest stop.   I was chatting away nervously, telling him not to worry.   "The doctors always have to bring up the worst things, so they can rule them out."  I wonder whom I was trying to convince... me or him? 

Reaching to find that comfort in the rarity of the diagnosis,  I reminded Tim that the Dana Farber doctors laughed and said he had better chances of winning the lottery than having this rare type of blood cancer.  (True story).   I tried my best to fill our conversation with all the reasons he should not worry:  "Blah Blah...nervous laugh...blah blah...The doctor was just being overly cautious...they do that, you know....blah blah blah."   Tim, however, cut me off mid-blahblahblahing.  He asked me, "why not?"  

He said there has to be someone, somewhere, who gets this cancer.   He said, "Mom, don't you think there could be some other random guy somewhere else, eating dinner with his mom right now, saying it's not him, either?"

Then he went on to say that if it had to be one of them.....either him or some other random guy, then why not him?  He added that he always thought of himself as stronger, more emotionally mature, and better equipped at handling bad news than the average guy. 

Throughout his treatment, even when things were so difficult, Tim often said that he didn't believe in asking "why me?".  He said to do so implied that he thought of himself as better, or as more deserving, than someone else.  He said no one deserves cancer, any more than anyone else.  He told me to never ask "Why him?".  He never did.  I'll confess I did.  I spent many tortured nights awake, crying, and asking God "Why my son?"........but I never told Tim that.  I wish I could have thought about it as maturely, and selflessly, as he did.  But I couldn't.  (and I still can't).


3.  Grace

When I think about how Tim emotionally approached his cancer, the single word that comes to mind is "grace".   He was genuinely thankful for the excellent medical care and support he received.  He told me that chemo was a gift. 

Tim's perspective was that throughout long history, anyone with cancer died.  He told me that chemo is a miracle of only recent modern times. He said that even though the chemo made him very sick, we should think of it as a gift of life.  He said without hesitation that he was grateful for this gift that came from the work and sacrifices of all the doctors and scientists that worked relentlessly to develop the drugs, and from all the patients that were in clinical trials before him. 

Every time our nurses left his hospital room, they’d ask if he needed anything else.  Tim's standard answer was always "just your time, love, and affection.”  But he didn't need to ask for those things.  The medical team adored Tim.   I'm not saying this as part of a mom's bragging - their admiration for him was obvious and they often shared their feelings with us. 

Most times Tim was a model patient - pleasant and cooperative - but more importantly, he was also fun.  If you were to add up every night we spent in the hospital, it would be almost two full years.  It wasn't all consecutive, but many stays were 3-4 months long.   Tim and I started calling Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, the "Wonderful Hotel Presbyterian".  The team there became our second family.  We transformed room 1102 in the Harkness Pavillion into the "Sieber Suite."  Tim set up his Play Station to the TV for video games, as well as Netflix and Hulu.  Kim decorated the walls with cards and pictures.  Doctors came to play video games with him (Dr Mapara, the Chief of Bone Marrow Transplant,  was partial to FIFA).  Our favorite PA, Alex, came every Wednesday night to watch the latest episode of South Park with him.  I know this because I slept every night there with him, in the recliner he called "The Madre Bed". 

Tim never spent a night alone in the hospital.   I was his roomie and caregiver almost every night, while Bill and Kim, who both worked full-time jobs back home in Albany, came every other weekend to switch up a few days.  

Speaking  of Kim, Tim told me all the time how grateful he was for her care.  He would tell everyone he was the luckiest guy ever.  When he was weak, she bathed him.  When he was hungry, she fed him.   Kim took care of his every need.   But I think most people wanted to help Tim because he was so gracious.  I used to tell him every day that being his caregiver was the most rewarding, most lovable job in the world, and that it was I who was the lucky one.

2.  Courage

Tim was incredibly brave.  While helping him fight cancer over the past few years, I saw Tim in situations that I wish I could forget.  I wish the Men In Black flashy thing was real, so I could erase these things.

Let's not sugarcoat anything.  Cancer is horrific.  I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.  I wouldn't wish it on the vilest, most disgusting criminal in the world.  And yet, I had to stand by helplessly and watch my poor sweet son endure some pretty horrible things.  

My memory is cruel.  It reminds me of things like opening the bathroom door in Tim's hospital room to find him shivering in the corner, covered in vomit....and still trying to clean it up so I didn't have to.   I remember picking him up after a fall off the curb on W32nd street, as the crowd of people just kept walking by.   They were too busy to be bothered or to think about the young man who fell because he was too weak to lift his foot up all the way to the curb.   My cruel memory keeps me up at night thinking about the times I had to bundle blanket upon a blanket on him, trying to get his teeth to stop chattering from his fever.   

 And yet Tim never, ever complained.  He not only faced these things with courage, but he also supported other cancer patients in the hospital and at the Hope Lodge.  I remember one morning we were sitting in the patient lounge area in the bone marrow transplant unit.  Another patient asked Tim why he was always in a good mood.  Tim told him, "Well, if I only have 6 months to live, why would I want to spend that time crying and complaining?  I want to make the most of every day I have, and enjoy all I can.”

1.  Death

Tim died the way he wanted to die.  That's not the same as saying he wanted to die.  Most definitely he did not.  But he did say that if he were going to die, he didn't want to know about it.  He didn't want to spend time worrying about it.  He said several times that his super power was optimism.  He said that if he truly believed he would survive anything, that even if he didn't survive, he wouldn't have to worry about it.  He'd laugh and say "Madre, it's going to suck for you, but I'll be just fine!”  

To some that may sound like denial, but it was more than that.  Tim's will, his sheer determination, and his ability to see every silver lining are what helped get him through each day.  And no, of course, a positive attitude alone can't cure cancer.  It can't save you from sepsis and multiple organ failure.  It cant add quantity of time, but it sure as heck can add quality to your time.

When Tim's body had just been through too much, when there was nothing more anyone could do, when the end was increasingly inevitable, I didn't lie to Tim.  I honored his wishes.  I simply told him he was getting medicine to feel better.  That I was with him.  That he was loved.  We cared for him and held him as each hour he slipped away a little more.  

But I don't want to stand in front of you and talk only about the day Tim died.  Tim died at the age of 26 years, one month, and one week.  I did the math.  He lived for 9,355 days.  And he died on only one day.  I prefer to focus on the other 9,354 days.

Tim was born on June 21, 1989.  My first marriage didn't last much longer after that, but our love for Tim lasted a lifetime.  It's almost as if our brief marriage existed for the sole purpose of creating the beautiful miracle that was Tim.

When Tim was barely a year old, I met my husband Bill.  As Tim was a child of divorce, you might think about things like broken homes, blended families, custodial issues, divided time...but when I think about Tim I don't think about these things as divided.  I think of them as multiplied.  What I mean by that is it's not as if Tim got 50% of his love from me and 50% from his father.  Tim got 100% of love from Dad, and 100% from me.  That's what I mean about multiplication vs division.  And when you add Bill into the mix, you can see how quickly love can multiply.  Tim received his love in multiples, undivided.

And what a multiplier Bill became!  When Bill asked me out for our first date, it went something like this:  "Joanne, do you have your son on Friday night?".  And I started by telling Bill that yes, I did, but that he's usually asleep by 8pm.  I asked Bill if he'd like to come by late, for dinner and a Blockbuster movie (hey, it was 1991).   But Bill would have none of that plan.  A single parent himself, Bill asked me why I would want him to wait until Tim was asleep?  And that is how it came to be that Bill and I had our first date at Chuck E Cheese.

Tim was the most adorable, blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby boy, ever.  He liked all things boys of that age and era liked.  Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Disney songs…well, everything except Barney.  "I hate that purple thing!", he would yell, and run out of the room.

When Tim was 8 years old, we moved from Orlando to New York.  As part of a job relocation, I came to New York ahead of Bill and Tim, to start my new job, and to rent us a place to live.  I didn’t know what I was about to do would be life changing for all of us.  

After a few weeks of looking for a townhome to rent, I put a security deposit on a beautiful condo in Crescent Estates.  But the very next day, I got a call back from a message I left the prior week, about a different condo, this one in Knox Woods.  Well, I wasn’t interested, but being alone in NY for the weekend with nothing better to do, I decided to go meet the owner.  I toured the condo and liked it well enough, but not enough to change my plan.  But then, wait…..out the living room window, I noticed a little boy, about the same age as Tim, playing on the grass outside. 

 I asked the owner, "Ummm, does that little boy live around here?  And he looks like maybe he's in 2nd grade"?  "Why yes", she said.  "That's Joey Quackenbush.  He lives right there, across the parking lot, and I do think he's in 2nd or 3rd grade.”   I watched Joey out the window, playing catch, while I tried to quickly size up his potential and suitability as a built-in friend.  Joey looked normal enough, and nice enough…..so while standing there,  I decided to put down another deposit.  This time more on the Joey, than the condo....but the rest is history.  They've been best friends since that fateful week, and Joey, a part of our family.  Thanks, Joey.  We love you.  And by the way, you owe me a refund on the deposit for Crescent Estates (kidding)!  

Joey and Tim were typical young boys, and I had to learn how to survive as the only female in a house full of boys.  Bill and I both thought it was best for Tim and friends to hang out at our house.  We told them we wanted to be the cool parents, but truth be told, we just wanted to know what they were up to.  When they got older and became teenagers, we remained the hangout, especially with our backyard pool.  It was about that time that I met my favorite Marine, Zach Keenan.   I first met Zach when he and Tim were skinny middle-schoolers, and he quickly became a best friend and another member of our family.  Zach, we love you, too. 

We tried to make a home that kids wanted to be in.  As the only female, I put up with endless sports on the television, along with all sorts of male antics....practical jokes, lots of farting noises, hot sauce eating contests, video games, Star Trek marathons, wrestling (and things I'm probably better off not knowing)....but I was glad to have the kids there.  

Speaking of friends and our pool, one summer, about 5 years ago, we noticed a certain pretty young lady spending an awful lot of evenings in our backyard pool with Tim.  All we knew was that her name was Kim.   Tim had so many friends, there were multiple Kim's, so to differentiate this one, Bill and I started calling her "Siena Kim", because all we knew about her was that her name as Kim, and that she went to Siena College. 

That summer, it was obvious a romance was blossoming between Tim and Siena Kim. I remember Bill and I looking out at the pool from our bedroom window, more than a few nights, whispering "Oooh, look...Siena Kim is back again".  We were thrilled when Tim finally came clean, actually introducing us to Siena Kim, aka Kim Holtermann.  They've been inseparable since that summer. 

I remember when I first realized the depth of Tim and Kim's relationship.  When Tim was first sick, he and I were traveling to Boston regularly.   For our trips to Dana Farber, he and I used to stay in a Residence Inn in Brookline.   Our suite was a one-bedroom floor plan, so there was a bedroom with a king size bed for me, and Tim slept on the pull out sofa in the living room.  A different room, but still easily within earshot.  After midnight one night, I could overhear Tim and Kim on the phone, talking about his biopsy and PET scan.  It dawned on me then that it wasn't so much that Tim wasn't opening up, it's was that I wasn't his go-to person for it.  It was Kim.  But that was ok.  I was glad he had someone and glad it was Kimmy.  

Kim became the fourth member of our family.  She pretty much moved in with us, first because she was spending a lot of time at our house anyway, but later because she was helping to care for Tim.  I can't emphasize enough how special the relationship is that the four of us share.  We run the gamut from friends, to parents, to double daters, and more.  We go out to eat together, vacation together, laugh and cry, and play and tease together.  And as any four people living under the same roof may also have, we also have had our share of moments when we drive each other crazy.  Bill was usually the one quick to take charge, reminding us all that it wasn't "Mom and Dad" vs "Kim and Tim".  It was "Mom, Dad, Tim and Kim" vs Cancer.  We always let that principle guide us through any conflict.  Kim, thank you for loving my son, for standing by him, and for joining our family.  One of the more difficult parts of this for Bill and me is that we not only lost Tim, but we also lose a piece of you, and we lose the four of us.  We don't need a piece of paper to tell us you are our daughter-in-law, and we love you dearly.

Going into Tim's bone marrow transplant, we were all a mix of anxiety and optimism.  The doctor's told us that we could expect one of three things to happen, and in Tim's case, they all carried about equal odds of happening.  #1 - Success.  The transplant would work and cure his cancer, and he would go on and have a nice life #2.  Incurable Cancer. The transplant would not be effective at curing his cancer, and the cancer would either not go away, or it would come back.  At that point he would be out of options and die from the cancer.  #3.  The transplant itself, being an extremely invasive and aggressive treatment, would kill him. (Official name: Treatment-Related Mortality).  The way Tim looked at it, not having the transplant meant 100% dying from the cancer.  His was so aggressive, and kept returning despite over 100 hours of chemo and a host of clinical trial drugs.  Tim told me that if he were standing on top of a burning building, and had a 30-50% chance of survival if he jumped, that he would jump.  The bone marrow transplant was his jump.

It started out so well!  But we were warned that most people do well to start, and that complications come a few months down the road.  That is what happened to us.  Tim had a few unfortunate infections early on that set some things into motion.  He had many close calls, many hospital stays, including in the ICU. 

When we almost lost him in the March ICU stay, I found myself praying for "One More" with him.  One More chance to tell him I loved him.  One More day, One More minute.  But as I thought about that, I realized the problem is that One More would never be enough.  Because I would always want One More.  When would it ever be enough?  

I knew I had to change the way I thought about that.  I realized that the One More I wished for yesterday, is actually happening today.  And it became very clear that life is about living every day as if it is the One More - because it is.  None of us will ever lose a loved one thinking we’ve had enough.   

Not one day went by without Tim knowing how much he meant to me.  I woke up every day with the goal of spending it as my One More, making it the most precious special day for us.  And when it became clear that we were in our final days, and out of One Mores, I found that I really didn't have any regrets.

Now, make no mistake - that's not to say that I didn't want more time.  Hell, no.  When he was declining, I fell to my knees and wept.  I begged and pleaded with God to spare him.  I screamed and sobbed on the floor.  But I had nothing that I felt was left unsaid or undone.  Tim and I didn't get the quantity I wanted, but we had more than enough quality.

The night Tim died he was surrounded by love.  Kim and I were in the bed with him, on each side, holding him and talking to him.  Bill and Zach took turns at the head of the bed talking to him.  Kim’s dad, Pete, along with our favorite caregiver Brooke C., and Tim’s Dad stayed with us.  

I asked Tim to feel the love of the room, and to let that love wrap him and carry him on.  Tim died in our arms, peacefully sleeping, and wrapped in that love.  

If The Beatles are right: “the love you take is equal to the love you make,” then  Tim took a whole world of love with him.  His grace, his courage, his humor, his spirit - gave so much love to this world.  Fly high, my beautiful angel.  

❤️ Madre